


Run, Boy, Run

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [7]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, glen capri, multiple mentions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-30 09:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6417823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I return with the first chapter of Run, Boy, Run! Posting a little early because I've got work in an hour and probably wouldn't get around to posting until tomorrow evening if I don't do it now.

**Run, Boy, Run**

Stiles skimmed through the article again gaze sliding over the words that fell heavy on his mind over and over until they blurred together on the page. Twenty-eight year old man hangs himself at the infamous Glen Capri. Mother drowns children then herself. Couple found dead in room two eighteen.

Suicide after suicide after suicide.

He hadn’t thought of the motel in months, made a conscious effort to _not_ think about it and the fact that three of those deaths were almost his friends. Definitely tried not to think about how one article could have read: Teen boy sets self on fire; perishes at scene from injuries.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

Flipping through the pages once more he paused at the single photograph of the motel, eyes involuntarily zeroing in on the parking lot able to easily call up the memory of the bus, flare, and Scott. He glanced up, blinking the recollection away and quickly shutting the folder as Dean approached looking uncertain. The hunter paused a few steps away from the table, shifting his weight for a long few seconds before Stiles took pity on him.

“Hey,” Stiles said offering up a slight grin, amused when Dean seemed to visibly deflate before sitting down across from him. It was reminiscent of his earlier conversation with Chris and Stiles once again stifled down the odd feeling of loss that had cropped up when Chris had left, going back to Beacon Hills no doubt to fill the others in on Stiles’ current whereabouts and activities. Surprisingly Stiles found the idea didn’t terrify him as much as he thought it would.

Dean laced his fingers together and didn’t say anything, just rested his clasped hands on the table and regarding them intently. It was weird to see the normally effervescent hunter so subdued and serious, and it was made all the stranger since Dean had been acting that way for the last day and a half. Stiles would almost be insulted by the amount of care and gravity that Dean and Bobby both had displayed in telling him everything they knew if he wasn’t simultaneously thankful for it. Hearing all the events starting from the deaths in sophomore year and ending with the attacks on the hospital and sheriff station, Allison’s death, and his dad’s accident laid out by the two hunters like they had been was more difficult than he would have anticipated. Whether that was because Bobby and Dean somehow managed to reduce each instance down to bare bone facts while Stiles could still remember every painful emotion that accompanied them or because hearing events of your life recounted like a movie synopsis was just plain strange he wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner,” Dean said finally looking up at him and Stiles resisted the urge to rebel against the solemnity and crow, “He speaks!”

“It’s okay,” he said instead and it was because, while Dean and Bobby had found out a good bit, some of the finer points were still unclear to them. Stiles had no intentions of clarifying and he was relatively certain Dean had no intentions of asking him too. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve been completely up front with you either. Though if you had told me I could have saved you guys a lot of trouble by telling you Chris wasn’t tracking me down to string me up by my toenails.”

Dean chuckled breaking some of the tension in the air. “Yeah, we, uh, sorta drew the wrong conclusion there, didn’t we?”

“Just a little misunderstanding,” Stiles said. “Water under the bridge and all that.”

“I just,” Dean started bowing his head a bit as he fidgeted with his hands, a sure sign that he was struggling to figure out how to say exactly what he wanted to. “Look, I just, I feel that you might take all of this as me lying to you, and I don’t want you to doubt other things I’ve said as me being honest with you.”

Stiles laughed, a bit short and a bit sour, but nonetheless genuine. “Dean, I’m under no illusions that you’re a hundred percent honest with me ever. You’re a hunter, and I’m well aware of how much you lie. Just as you’re well aware that I lie to you.”

“Bobby and I still don’t know everything, do we?” Dean asked, a slow and easy smile on his face. Not exactly the expression Stiles would have expected in response to his declaration of dishonestly but welcome all the same.

“Course not,” he said lightly. “You’ll never know everything. You weren’t there.”

“So, there’s no hard feelings from this?” Dean asked gesturing between them. “We’re good?”

Stiles nodded. “We’re good,” he agreed tapping his fingers over the folder beneath his hand. He ran his index along the edge, picking at the corner. “Although, if you’re feeling a bit guilty, there is something you could do for me.”

* * *

“A solo hunt,” Bobby repeated again like if he said it enough with a tone of disapproval Dean would drop the idea. John as going to have his head for this, but Bobby still wasn’t going to order Dean around. If he and Stiles wanted to go off to California for a random ghost hunt then he wasn't going to stop them. “Just the two of you.”

“Yes,” Dean said. Clearly he either wasn’t picking up on the subtext or was deliberately ignoring it.

Bobby sighed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked going for blunt instead.

Dean arched an eyebrow at him crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“John won’t be happy to hear about it.”

“Yeah, well, Dad’s not here,” Dean said, gaze skittering away like it always did when he knew he was doing something John wouldn’t necessarily approve of; Bobby was torn between feeling proud Dean was going against an unspoken order and annoyance that Dean still felt entirely subordinate to his father. “He won’t be here for several more days, and he said I wasn’t allowed to hunt alone, not that I couldn’t hunt with Stiles.”

“You ready to go, Dean?” Stiles asked coming down the stairs, seeming unaware that he’d interrupted a conversation. He skipped his gaze over Bobby as he headed for the door and Bobby once again pondered how attached Stiles seemed to this hunt. The name of the motel they were going to struck a familiar chord somewhere in his mind, but Bobby couldn't quite place it.

Dean glanced at Bobby but nodded affirmative to Stiles anyway. “Yep. All set,” he said grabbing his bag from the floor as Stiles passed by him to leave, pushing open the screen door with a screech and stepping down off the porch. Dean caught the door before it could fall shut entirely but didn’t leave, instead pausing just over the threshold.

“Uh, in the interest of honesty,” he said hanging back in the doorway as Stiles crossed the yard to the car they were borrowing, “since we all seem to be on a kick of it here lately, I wanted to ask your advice for something. Before we left, I mean.”

“Oh yeah?” Bobby said crossing his arms. “What’s that?”

“I, uh, did something the other night,” Dean hedged, balking a little at the idea of actually admitting whatever it was and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Something that I’m, uh, I’m not sure I should have done.”

The older hunter sighed, pulling his cap off to run a weary hand through his hair before replacing the hat. He wasn’t surprised; Dean hadn't been entirely forthcoming the first time they talked about it. “Oh really? You’re finally acknowledging that, are you?”

“Bobby, I’m not…serious Dean moment here,” the younger hunter said gripping the doorjamb hard, brows furrowed and gaze heavy.

That got Bobby to settle into a well-worn expression of exasperated concern as he gave Dean a cursory once over. “Okay,” he said plainly. “What’d you do?”

“The night Stiles and I were stargazing,” Dean began picking at the loose trim under his hand and focusing on it like it was the most interesting thing in the world, “we might have done, uh, more than stargazing.”

“Such as?”

“Uh, we might have made out. A bit.”

Bobby sighed, eyes falling shut a moment before he just said, “Dean,” in a way that was long and weary and prompted and an immediate defensive response.

“He was lonely.”

“Dean.”

“It was just a bit of kissing.”

“Dean.”

“We were both kind of drunk!”

“Dean!” Bobby said finally raising his voice to match Dean’s only without the franticness so that Dean finally fell silent. He regarded the younger man critically a long moment before saying, “You mind telling me what you were thinking?”

“I was thinking that he could use some…comfort.”

Comfort. Bobby repeated that in his mind a few times before shaking his head again. “Maybe try a hug next time.”

“Bobby,” Dean whined. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s not meant to be,” Bobby said letting a note of reproach filter into his voice. “It’s meant to make you realize that the last thing you should be doing is making out with the kid.”

“Still not being helpful.”

“Still not trying to be,” the older hunter snapped. “Dean, it doesn’t take a genius to know that Stiles isn’t in a place where he should be getting involved with another person like that, especially not with you.”

“I asked for your advice, Bobby, not for Dr. Phil’s.”

“Dean, his friend died, his father is in the hospital, he left his home and has been away for months, and we still don’t know exactly what happened but know enough to know that whatever did really happen was terrible. None of that culminates in a person who is at all ready for a relationship.”

“Whoa,” Dean said holding up a hand like Bobby had dropped a bombshell on his head with the word. “Whoa. No, no, this isn’t, it’s not a relationship. It’s just…just a distraction.”

“Dean, you don’t have _distractions_ with people you live and work with,” Bobby growled. “And that just proves my point. Neither of you are capable.”

“Bobby—”

“Why did you tell me this now?” Bobby asked.

Dean huffed, frustrated. “I don’t know. I just—”

“I’ll tell you why. It’s because the two of you are going on this trip, alone, and you’ve got ideas going through that thick skull of yours that you know are no good,” Bobby said jabbing Dean hard in the forehead. “But you still needed me to spell it out for you. Do _not_ get involved with him like that, Dean. For both your sakes.”

“You didn’t have to give me a concussion over it,” Dean griped rubbing at his forehead.

“I mean it, Dean.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. Off limits,” Dean said pushing away from the doorjamb angrily.

“Dean,” Bobby called before he could get off the porch. The younger hunter paused but didn’t actually turn around. “I know you care about him. And I know you can see he’s hurting, but I promise you that a distraction is not the best way you can help him.”

* * *

“I hate California,” Stiles mumbled pressing his forehead to the car window barely audible over the thrum of the tires on the highway.

Dean raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Stiles from the corner of his eye. “Yeah?” he asked thinking of Palo Alto and college campuses. “Me too.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles said drawing the word out so that it sounded anything but fantastic and instead crossed into caustic territory. “What a pair we make.”

Dean nodded his head, tapping his hands on the steering wheel in time with the music for a few minutes before speaking again. “So…if you hate Cali so much why did you specifically find a hunt near your hometown and ask me to come with you?”

“I told you,” Stiles replied with practiced ease. “I stumbled across it in Bobby’s files.”

Dean frowned. “You are a shitty liar sometimes, Stiles. Now, I agreed to drive you fourteen hours to some no-name motel. I think I deserve a little bit of information here,” he said. “More than, ‘hey Dean let’s go gank some suicide inducing spirits.’ You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Stiles muttered rubbing at his temple wearily. “You’re doing this to make it up to me, remember?”

Dean let the bitter tone wash right over him, not rising to the bait or taking any offence because he figured that not only did Stiles have every right to be a little bitter about things, but that his sour mood had less to do with Dean and more to do with the fact that they’d just crossed the California state line a few minutes back. Dean hadn’t missed the way Stiles had stiffened in his seat somehow growing even quieter as they passed the sign proudly declaring their welcome to the state of California.

“Stiles,” he simply said instead letting the name roll off his tongue with the same ease and openness that had always gotten Sam to open up to him in the past.

Stiles sat back in his seat eyeing Dean carefully, and he could practically see Stiles editing the story in his head before speaking. “My junior year of high school my best friend and I were on the track team with a few other, uh, friends.”

“Is this the same best friend that that had a thing with Allison?” Dean asked thinking back quickly to summon up the name—Scott.

“Yeah, Scott,” Stiles said. “So, we were on our way to an out of town meet and we ended up at this motel.” He drummed his fingers along the door swallowing roughly and redirecting his gaze back out the car window as he paused for a long moment. “Within an hour most of my friends were, I don’t know, going off the deep end. One tried to cut himself open with a handsaw,” he said quietly.

Dean made a small noise of surprise but didn’t interrupt. He trained his gaze back on the road exclusively not pressuring Stiles into talking. His stomach twisted in on itself having a pretty good idea where this story was going. He’d read the file before they left. One hundred ninety-nine suicides in thirty-seven years—an average of five suicides a year.

“I had to wrestle it off him. Another one tried to, to drown himself in the tub. If we’d found him a few minutes later,” Stiles shook his head letting the sentence trail away and picking up a new one. “Another was so scared he crawled under the bed and refused to come out.”

Dean didn’t probe for more when Stiles stopped, just continued intermittently drumming his fingers along the steering wheel. He saw Stiles start counting his fingers discreetly, tapping each one lightly against his thigh and taking a few steadying breaths before continuing. “And Scott…doused himself in gasoline and lit a flare from the bus.”

Dean’s inhaled sharply, clenching his hands around the steering wheel. He didn’t know what to say, wasn’t sure he should say anything. Stiles didn’t seem to notice his dilemma; Dean figured he wasn’t really expecting a reply.

“He was so lost, just so, I don’t know, tragic, and I was so sure he was going to drop it and go up in flames.”

“And?” Dean asked after a long stretch of silence.

“And what?” Stiles asked. “I stopped him. That’s what. Then we all got the fuck outta dodge and never talked about it again.”

Dean’s jaw actually dropped a bit at that as he turned almost fully to face Stiles. “You guys all went through a near death experience by suicide and never talked about it? That seems healthy.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Will you watch the road while you’re driving, please, you’re making me anxious.” Dean huffed but repositioned himself more appropriately for driving. “Thank you. And, no, maybe it wasn’t healthy, but it was how we handled it. Because, newsflash, teenagers handle tough shit by ignoring the problem until it goes away. And it’s not like we could talk to anyone about it without being called crazy and shut up in Eichen House.”

“Hey,” Dean said holding his hands up in mock surrender while keeping the heel of his palms on the wheel. The name Eichen House struck a chord in his memory; that was where Stiles had stayed for a few days less than a year ago. He hadn’t offered anymore details on the subject when Bobby and Dean had talked to him about it, but now Dean wondered if it had anything to do with the motel. “No judgment. I too am a huge fan of ignoring problems until they go away. You think it's a spirit?”

“It is a spirit,” Stiles answered. “One hundred ninety-nine suicides don’t just happen. And my other friend, she sensed something the moment we got there. Something bad.”

“Sensed? What’s she? A psychic or something?” Dean asked

“Or something,” Stiles muttered.

“Let me guess,” Dean said with a sigh, letting the subject of psychic friends go untouched. “You already have an idea of who it is.”

Stiles nodded, eyes narrowed in thought. “I think it’s Alexander Argent.”

“The hunter?” Dean said in surprise. “No, if he died there he would have been salted and burned. The Argents would have taken care of it. They’re a tight group.”

“I know,” Stiles said rubbing at his forehead. “Chris says he was. That’s the problem.”

“If he was salted and burned why are you so sure it’s him?” Dean said. “Maybe he was just a victim.”

“No,” Stiles said shaking his head. “He was the first suicide. And if anyone would be a vengeful suicide spirit it would be an Argent who shot himself in the head because he was bit by a werewolf.”

Dean whistled lowly. “Yeah, okay, that would do it. Wait, how do you know he was bit by a werewolf?”

“Chris told me,” Stiles said. “And besides, an Argent who got bit by werewolf? Suicide is how they handle that sort of thing.”

* * *

The parking lot was just as Stiles remembered it and exactly how it appeared in his dreams. A steady drizzle of rain was falling from the sky, dampening Stiles’ hair and clothes and gathering in large puddles on pavement. Stiles stared at the puddle reflecting light in sporadic patches, remembering the gasoline soaking in his shoes and the way his sweatshirt had smelled for days and how he’d caught whiffs of it coming off Scott for the next week.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?” he said shaking the image of Scott standing there out of his mind and turning to Dean.

“You okay?” Dean asked glancing around the lot Stiles had been staring at.

“Yeah, fine,” Stiles said pulling his duffle from the trunk. “Let’s get a room.”

The doorbell chimed a little as Stiles pulled the door open, Dean following a step behind him. The motel lady smiled a little when she looked up, leaning against the counter with a toothy grin.

“I remember you,” she said, pointing a thin finger at Stiles. He shivered, cursing mentally and trying to ignore they way the woman made his insides shrivel.

“How could you possibly remember that?” he said, because, seriously, it’d been almost a year and he’d only talked to her once.

The woman laughed, the wheezing and hacking laugh of a long-time smoker, coughing into a shoulder at the end before regaining enough of a breath to speak. “Well, your stay was a bit of a memorable one, wasn’t it?” she said gesturing to the numbers hanging on the wall behind her, currently displaying one hundred ninety-nine.

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, something scathing and sarcastic to reflect the dark feeling clawing away inside of him, but instead nothing came out.

“Okay, keeping track of the suicides? That’s a little morbid, lady,” Dean said stepping up beside Stiles and glancing at him in veiled concern.

The woman pursed her lips and nodded. “That’s what I told his pretty little friend. So a room?”

Dean glanced at Stiles again. “Yeah. Two queens.”

“That’ll be thirty-five dollars.”

Dean tossed a credit card on the counter tapping his fingers as the lady swiped it then handed it back. “You work here long?”

“Awhile,” she replied with a shrug. “Why?”

“Were you here for the first suicide?” Dean asked.

“Boy, just how old do you think I am?” she said, eyeing Dean up and down.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, well, you couldn’t be a day over thirty.”

The woman scowled at him and shook her head. “Honey, you’re lucky you’re pretty. And no, I didn’t work here for the first suicide. I was hired after.”

“Well do you know anything about it?”

“Do I know anything about it?” the woman said. “It’s practically urban legend around here. Man came in on a full moon, you know that’s when the lunatics really come out, and rented a room for the night. Sometime during the night he took a shotgun and blew his brains out.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Were all the suicides on the night of a full moon?”

“Nah,” the woman said shuffling papers around. “Some are, some aren’t. One time we had four people, college kids, complete a suicide pact on a full moon. But the night his buddy tried to torch himself wasn’t a full moon, nowhere near one in fact,” she finished gesturing at Stiles.

Stiles swallowed thickly turning away from the conversation and trying to breathe around the lump forcing itself down his throat. The window offered a perfect view of the parking lot and the exact spot Scott had stood. Stiles wondered if the woman had seen Scott pouring the gasoline and lighting the flare; wondered if she’d watched passively, concerned only about reaching two hundred, or if the Darach had somehow made everyone else turn a blind eye to Stiles’ friends trying to kill themselves.

“Maybe you should stop asking questions and just get your little friend up to your room,” the woman suggested words finally registering with Stiles again.

He glanced back to Dean and the woman wondering what expression was showing on his face to make Dean look so worried. Dean jerked his head in acquiesce motioning for Stiles to precede him through the door, a guiding hand falling to the small of Stiles’ back when he paused over the threshold.

“You okay?” Dean asked, pitching his voice low.

Stiles swallowed and swept his gaze over the parking lot once more, feeling something dark and heavy twist in his chest and hearing the echoing ring of Lydia’s scream in his ears.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and, as always, you can find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)
> 
> Expect the next update by **April 10th**


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! Finally!

**Run, Boy, Run**

Dean found Stiles passed out at the table in the morning. Initially there was a flash of panic when he blinked his eyes open under protest and realized the far bed was empty. Then it sunk in that the bed was empty and still perfectly made. A quick survey of the small room found Stiles bent over at the table sound asleep and slightly snoring. The hunter frowned, but didn’t wake Stiles instead moving silently into the bathroom to shower. Surprisingly Stiles was still asleep when he came back out ten minutes later. Dean actually paused, a note of concern running through him as he considered the boy at the table.

Stiles was breathing steadily, neck twisted so his head could rest on the file he’d evidently been reading before he’d fallen asleep, arms splayed out beside him. After a moment of indecision, part of him really wanting to let the other boy sleep, Dean gently rapped a knuckle on the table recalling how Stiles tended to react when awakened physically.

“Hey, Stiles. Time to get up, buddy,” he said pitching his voice low but audible.

Stiles scrunched up his face then blinked looking confused for a second before jerking upright. The chair rocked against the floor, the front two legs picking up for a second before slamming back to the faded linoleum. He sat still for a moment, looking a little startled by his own movement then swiped a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes before scrabbling at his phone to check the time.

“I’m glad you got some sleep,” Dean said leaving Stiles to wake up fully and moving to dig through his bag for a set of mostly clean clothes, “but maybe try the bed next time, huh?”

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Stiles replied voice rough from sleep. He pushed himself away from the table stumbling in the direction of the bathroom and rubbing at his neck. Dean winced in sympathy more than able to imagine how sore his neck was from sleeping at such an angle.

He turned back to his bag, dragging out a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. He pulled the jeans on first then shrugged into his shirt picking out a flannel overshirt to ward off the faint chill in the room. Who’d imagine California to ever be chilly? He was in the middle of lacing up his boots, foot propped on the edge of the bed when Stiles called his name from the bathroom, a concerning note of panic drawing Dean’s attention immediately.

Throwing his boot back to the floor Dean grabbed his iron blade from his duffle and threw himself across the room not hesitating in the least to shove open the bathroom door. He was prepared for anything, wouldn't have been surprised to see a spectral Alexander Argent on the other side of the door, but there was only Stiles standing before the mirror with his hands clenched tightly around the  sink, knuckles white against the long ago stained porcelain.

“What’s wrong?” Dean demanded sweeping his gaze around the room in case he’d somehow missed something in his first examination.

Stiles didn’t reply, just waved a hand vaguely at his neck and kept his eyes closed. Dean set the knife down on the counter before turning his attention to Stiles’ neck. Giving a visual inspection first Dean saw nothing that should have warranted such a reaction. Stiles swallowed heavily, adams apply bobbing noticeably, and flinched as Dean touched him. Dean prodded gently, running his fingers over Stiles’ skin, tilting the other boy’s head to the side and tugging at the shirt collar to expose more skin incase whatever it was lay beneath clothing.

“I don’t, Stiles, I don’t see anything,” Dean said, brows furrowed in confusion. Stiles’ neck was unmarked aside from his usual moles, skin smooth and pale as always.

Stiles licked his lips flexing his fingers around the counter as he took a steadying breath. “You don’t see them?” he asked sounding apprehensive.

Dean shook his head, brushing his fingers over Stiles’ neck once more. “See what?”

“Lichtenberg figure,” he whispered and Dean frowned wondering if he’d misheard or if he just had no idea what that meant. The name didn't ring any bells for him though it did sound vaguely ominous especially with the tone Stiles used.

“Stiles, there’s nothing here.”

Blinking his eyes open Stiles immediately looked to his neck, smooth and unblemished beneath Dean’s hand.

“Stiles?”

Stiles brushed Dean’s hand away leaning closer to the mirror and inspecting his neck closely.

“Stiles,” Dean repeated.

“Sorry,” he said the apology rolling off his tongue loose and easy. Practiced. He met Dean's gaze in the mirror for a split second before darting away again. “I just…I thought I saw…it’s nothing.”

“That didn’t sound like nothing,” Dean said.

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. It was clear he was trying to gather himself, brush off whatever this was as nothing when it evidently was. “Well, clearly, it is nothing. I just overreacted.”

Dean frowned again, regarding Stiles closely for a moment then returning to what he had started to admit before. “What did you think you saw?”

“Huh?”

“You said you thought you saw something,” Dean pressed leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms to keep from touching Stiles again. “What did you think you saw?”

Stiles sighed lowering his hand and glancing at Dean from the corner of his eye before focusing back on the mirror with an intensity Dean had never seen him give his own reflection. “I thought…I though I saw marks,” he said slowly one hand drifting up to trace invisible lines over his skin as he tilted his head. “Here. On my neck.”

“Okay. And that freaked you out because?” Dean asked, a little puzzled and making an effort to keep his tone as non-confrontational as possible.

“Because the last time the marks were there wasn’t a good time,” Stiles said drawing his brows together in a deep furrow.

Dean mirrored his expression, mind racing through the implications and possibilities behind the statement. It implied quite heavily that there was a point in time where Stiles had probably been hurt in some manner resulting in marks on his neck that served as a reminder; nothing severe enough to leave any lasting marks or scars though, at least not physically. It also indicated something more pressing about the motel, something Dean should have considered before they even got here.

“Get dressed,” he told Stiles, softening his tone a bit when Stiles looked at him sharply. “Get dressed then we’ll go get something to eat and you’re gonna tell me everything that happened the last time you were here.”

* * *

Stiles poked at his pancakes morosely. Going over in detail—though without mentioning anything about werewolves, wolfsbane, or evil druids—what had happed during his first visit to the motel last September was more than a little unsettling and exhausting. In spite of the couple hours of sleep he'd gotten his eyes were itchy and limbs heavy with fatigue. Additionally, what Dean had proposed about the spirits modus operandi made a depressing amount of sense, and he couldn’t help but berate himself for not figuring it out sooner.

“Stiles.”

He blinked raising his gaze from his half-eaten food to the hunter across from him. “Hmm?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay at the motel,” Dean said, brows pinched in an expression that approached something like concern. It was the same expression he'd worn in the bathroom earlier when Stiles almost had a meltdown over a stupid hallucination, and it was an expression he was all to familiar with having seen in on many a face—Scott's, Lydia's, his dad's, Derek's—before he'd left Beacon Hills. It was an expression of concern blanketed in uncertainty of how handle Stiles; like Stiles was made of glass or brittle eggshells and could shatter at any wrong word.

“Why?” Stiles asked at the seemingly non-sequitur.

Dean arched one eyebrow like he thought Stiles should easily be able to follow his line of thought. “Ah, because the spirit has apparently decided you’re its newest project and, no offence, but I’m not too comfortable with how likely it seems to be that you might actually—”

“Off myself?” Stiles interjected, raising a brow to match Dean’s and purposely wording it as bluntly as possible. 

The hunter scowled. “If you want to put it frankly, yes.”

“I believe I already promised not to,” Stiles pointed out.

“Yeah, but that was without the creepy presence of a spirit whispering into your head,” Dean argued cleaning the last of his pancakes from his plate. “I don’t doubt your tenacity on your own, but from what you said it seems likely that the spirit preys on bad experiences to push people into suicide. And you probably have loads of fuel for it.”

Stiles sighed, unconsciously rubbing at his neck. He almost brought up the fact that Dean had his own personal demons he should be concerned with, but bit his tongue at the last minute instead saying, “I don’t think we need to worry. My friends were all fine after we kinda jogged them out of it. As long as I’m aware of what’s going on I should be okay.”

“Should be isn’t a guarantee,” Dean said pushing his plate to the side and lacing his fingers together seriously.

“Nothing’s a guarantee. Look, where else are we gonna go?” Stiles asked pushing the phantom feeling of fingers dancing over his throat out of his mind. “It’s the only motel for several miles in any direction and we’re already here. Let’s just finish the job and then we can leave.”

“Stiles, we don’t even know—”

“We know enough,” Stiles said cutting the other man off impatiently. “We know who it is. We know how they operate. We know the rules of vengeful spirit hauntings.”

Dean sighed leaning back in his seat, one arm extending out to rest across the back of the booth as he rolled his eyes. “There’s something at the motel grounding the spirit.”

“Most likely,” Stiles agreed with a curt nod. “So all we gotta do is figure out what it is. Then we can leave.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean said, apparently deciding that resigning himself to Stiles' argument was the easiest course of action. “We’re going to need a lot more information.”

Stiles grinned. “I need a library.”

* * *

“How did you even get these?” Dean asked sifting through the pile of crime scene photos and wrinkling his nose at some of the more graphic ones; the human head did not fare well when blasted through with a shotgun. It looked like Stiles had somehow managed to access the entire crime file for the Alexander Argent suicide. There was everything from case notes to autopsy photos to internal documents.

“I might know a back door into certain law enforcement databases and how to find particular information through it,” Stiles answered absently bent over his own stack of photos on the other side of the table. Dean had wanted to remain at the library even though it was a good forty-five minute drive from the motel, but Stiles had insisted on coming back. Dean had no idea why since Stiles didn't seem the least bit happy actually being at the motel, but all his arguments otherwise had been met with stonewalled silence and blank stares. 

“Ahuh,” Dean said letting the silence stretch for a moment before saying, “How’s your dad feel about that?”

Stiles paused flicking his gaze up to Dean briefly then shrugged waving a dismissive hand. “He doesn’t know. Not really. I mean, he suspects but he just doesn’t ask. Plausible deniability and all that.”

“You must have driven your dad absolutely nuts,” Dean said squinting at a particularly gruesome picture of the crime scene.

“That’s nothing new. According to my dad I've been driving him crazy ever since I learned to—Oh fuck,” Stiles said suddenly staring at one of the photographs from his pile.

Dean glanced up at him, frowning at the sudden shift in tone. “What?”

“I think I know what the object is,” Stiles replied and there was an odd note to his voice. He sounded slightly strangled, like whatever he’d seen in the photo was disturbing on a personal level.

“Really?” Dean asked leaning across the table. “What is it?”

Stiles flipped the picture around tapping his finger over a barely discernable silver necklace at the dead man’s neck. Dean squinted, swearing internally for a multitude of reasons. If Stiles was right the Argent’s had failed spectacularly in properly taking care of Alexander, and there was a solid chance he and Stiles wouldn’t even be able to find the damn thing.

“If it is,” he observed with no small amount of disappointment and anticipatory resignation to a hellish hunt, “we’re gonna have a bitch of a time even trying to finding it.” Locating things spirits were attached to was often like trying to find a needle in a haystack and there was always the chance that they weren't even looking in the right haystack or for the right needle.

“Maybe it’s not?” Stiles said though he sounded doubtful. “I mean, doesn’t the object have to be near the spirit? Aren’t they linked and geographically bound?”

“Usually,” Dean said still inspecting the necklace as he tried to make out more details, but he couldn’t see much more than a small silver pendent with some sort of engraving. “But not always. Sometimes the object links them to our world, but they’re tied to where they died regardless of where the object is. Though that’s rare, and it’s far more likely the necklace is here somewhere if that's what’s keeping him linked. We can check the room first then talk to the front desk. Maybe they kept it. I mean if they keep all the news paper clippings then keeping a necklace wouldn't be far off.”

“Uh, actually,” Stiles said reaching under his layers of shirts to draw out something silver that glinted in the light, “I already know where it is.”

It took Dean a second to realize the necklace gently swinging in Stiles’ hand was the same one in the picture. It was a small round pendant with a raised impression of a wolf and what looked like an arrowhead. “I’ll be damned. Well, this just got about three thousand times easier,” he said reaching out for the pendant. “We melt that and we’re probably golden.”

Stiles snatched the necklace back before Dean even made contact holding it out of his reach. “What? No. I’m not burning it.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Dean said. “You know that’s the only sure fire way to get rid of this spirit.”

“Well, we’re just gonna have to figure out another way then,” Stiles retorted.

“Dude, come on, it’s just a necklace. How did you even get it?” Dean asked before it finally clicked. Something clenched in his chest at the look on Stiles’ face, raw and pensive. Oh. Dean swallowed. “It belonged to Allison, didn’t it?”

Stiles nodded tucking the necklace safely back under his shirts. He pressed a hand over his chest for a second, smoothing his shirt down over the now hidden necklace.

“Okay,” Dean said, though the word felt inadequate and there was a flighty foreign feeling twisting his stomach. “Uh, we’ll figure something else out. We’ll call Bobby. There are some cleansing rituals we can try. They aren’t always effective, but we’ll give them a shot.”

Stiles glanced at the photos again, tugging the file of the suicides he’d put together closer and flipping it open. And endless amount of news articles and obituaries on the two hundred plus suicides stared back at him. “And if they don’t work?” he asked shifting through a few of the articles.

Dean bit his lip not wanting to say what they’d need to do if the cleansings didn’t work. There was only one surefire way to lay a spirit to rest and Stiles was well aware of the fact. If it came down that, choosing between the lives of others and the pendant, Dean wouldn’t have a problem making a choice. Sacrifice was in the job description; Stiles knew that too. 

Stiles looked up at him and nodded having obviously read Dean’s answer in his lack of response. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and I apologize for the delay. I'd love to keep to my weekly postings, but it seems I'm averaging about a week and a half so expect the next update no later than **April 27th** (though I will be aiming for the 20th). 
> 
> I also feel obliged to mention that I did the bad, bad thing of starting a Psych fic, _Wednesday, March 3rd Of 2010_ (which I've fallen in love with and seriously Psych is so lacking in fic when compared to other shows) so I've been alternating between writing this and writing that. It's almost finished though so all my attention will soon return to _Run, Boy, Run_. 
> 
> As always I can be pestered on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I do apologize for not getting this up before I had to leave for work last night, but here it is! Thanks for being so patient!

**Run, Boy, Run**

In the past twenty some odd years of his life Dean had put a lot of faith in his instincts. It was something his dad alternately reinforced and criticized; Dad espoused the trusting of one’s intuition while simultaneously enforcing the idea that research and facts were equally, if not more, important.

Around the time Dean started actively participating in hunts as a teenager, Dad really began hammering the lesson home. In spite of the fact that Dean tended to be right more often than wrong when he followed a gut feeling, Dad didn’t much care for the way Dean leapt without always looking. Dad had pretty good instincts himself but liked to always back them up with some solid research and fact checking before acting on them. For Dean, sometimes that heavy weight in his stomach was enough. He trusted his intuition as much as he trusted his father; sometimes he trusted it more.

His gut told him who was guilty and who was innocent. It told him when he was on the right track or chasing down a false lead. It let him know when the person he was looking for was dead or alive or where the best place to find them would be. It set off alarm bells in his head when things didn’t add up, and it flashed a warning sign at him when he or his family was in danger.

Dean’s intuition had always been good, and he’d finely honed the skill of listening to it.

Right now that intuition was practically screaming at him.

The Glen Capri motel gave him the creeps. It was like catching something wrong just visible out of the corner of his eye; whenever he tried to pin down exactly what made him so uncomfortable about the motel, aside from the long and sordid history of suicides, it scurried away and hid in the shadows. The more he tried to draw attention to it the further it faded away, and the longer he and Stiles stayed, the more his stomach rolled and protested. Dean did his best to ignore it, turning a blind eye to the sense of danger thrumming through him and focusing on solving the case instead.

He was relatively certain he wasn’t the only one unnerved by the motel. Stiles had been on edge since they’d arrived and, while Dean could attribute that to previous experience, he was certain there was more to it. Since seeing the marks on his neck that morning which hadn’t been there in reality, he’d seemed to draw into himself, layering up on clothes and hunching his shoulders almost like he was trying to hide from something.

Whatever it was, Dean didn't like it. Possibly didn’t like it more than he didn’t like the motel. There was a festering doubt of worry at the back of his mind that made him reluctant to let Stiles out of his sight for even a moment. Bobby had expressed similar concerns once Dean had shared what they knew about the hunt. His last words on the phone call had been reminiscent of Dad’s orders whenever Dean was left alone with Sam.

Watch out for him. Keep him safe. Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid.

Dean would do his damnest to try, but hell if Stiles didn’t make it almost impossible.

Bobby had also given Dean a few cleansing rituals to try though he shared Dean’s doubt in their effectiveness. Cleansings that didn’t include the salting and burning of bones or objects had a fairly low success rate; the only way to be entirely certain the spirit was gone _was_ to torch the bones. Dad never relied on simple cleansings or other avenues of weaknesses when it came to spirits because the result wasn’t assured enough. Stiles though, Stiles lived in the grey area of uncertainty, constantly relying on things like chance and intuition.

"Dean."

Dean hummed in response, drawn out of his thoughts. He waited a moment but Stiles didn’t continue. Flicking his gaze over to the other boy, Dean frowned when he realized Stiles wasn’t even looking at him.

“Dean.”

The voice was soft and familiar. It was barely audible over the noise in the room, just a hair loud enough to be heard above the rustling of pages and quiet murmurings from the television Stiles had on.

"Dean."

It was louder now and Stiles still didn't react, just stayed bent over the papers before him with a single-minded diligence, half turned to face the television although he appeared to paying it no attention. Dean stood, chair scraping across the floor as he moved slowly towards the small window to glance outside, squinting to discern anything beyond vague shapes through the old and almost opaque glass. The lot below their room appeared motionless, undisturbed by anyone or anything. One of the lights on the opposing wall flickered halfheartedly then blew out.

"Dean."

It was sterner now. Insistent.

"Dean, hon, come out and play. Get some fresh air."

He yanked open the door with no memory of moving to do so, chest heaving as he stared out across the balcony and parking lot below. He could hear her laughing, the sound ringing clearly through the air, so loud she had to be close by somewhere. It had been decades since he’d heard her voice, but he still recognized it. There was a pull in his chest, a clenching around his heart, tugging him insistently out of the room.

Something heavy landed on his arm by his elbow and another voice, male and clear, cut through the air.

"Dean, what is it?"

He blinked, wood of the banister creaking beneath his hands as he squeezed. Stiles stood beside him, eyes narrowed in concern, and behind him several feet back the door to their motel room hung open swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Stiles squinted, cocking his head to the side.

“What did you see?” he asked, all traces of uncertainty erased from his tone and replaced with a quiet conviction.

Dean opened his mouth trying to push words through his tight throat, but nothing seemed to come out. He scanned the lot again straining his ears for any soft sound of her voice, but everything was abysmally silent again. “I…”

“Dude, what?”

“I…I didn’t see anything,” Dean said and Stiles’ brows drew together in puzzlement.

“Then why the hell did you get up all the sudden and stalk out the door while ignoring every word out of my mouth?” Stiles said.

Dean huffed, brushing Stiles’ hand off his arm. “I didn’t _see_ anything,” he repeated wiping a hand over his mouth. “I thought I heard…I _did_ hear a voice.”

Stiles’ expression cleared, going slightly somber. “Ah,” he said. “Your mom?”

Dean glanced sharply at him. “How did you…have you heard your mom?”

“No,” Stiles replied quickly, shaking his head. “No, god no. It’s different for everyone. For some people it’s visual, for others it’s auditory, and for some it’s just a feeling. I mostly…see things.”

“See things?” Dean echoed, a heavy feeling settling in his gut at Stiles’ tone.

Stiles blinked. “Yeah, uh, like the marks on my neck,” he said waggling his fingers toward his throat, which was hidden beneath the collar of his sweatshirt as it had been since he’d panicked over the imagined marks. He glanced slightly to the left and cleared his throat. “People. People who shouldn’t be here. And, uh, a shadow that follows me. You know, out of the corner of my eye that disappears when I try to look at it directly.”

Dean considered that for a moment, involuntarily thinking back to any number of horror movies he’d seen in his life and more than capable of sympathizing with the hair-raising chill that came from catching something just from the peripheral of his vision only to find it gone when he tried to face it. “Do you see them right now?” he asked with a morbid sort of curiosity.

Stiles swallowed and looked away, sinking his hands into his pockets. For a second Dean thought he would lie but then he met Dean's gaze and said, “Yes. It’s pretty much been a constant for the last half day.”

Dean sighed, resisting the urge to prick his ears to see if he could hear her voice again. Wouldn’t do to get caught up in everything. It wasn’t real after all, and would only lead down a lonely tortured road. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s…let’s finish up those talismans and try to grab some sleep before tomorrow.”

* * *

Stiles stared blankly at eight small bags set before him drawn in by the comforting aura they emanated. Neither he or Dean has slept well that night, Stiles barely managing more than two hours over the course of the night and Dean jerking awake every couple hours to blink blearily around the room until he caught sight of Stiles before falling back asleep. Both of them were on edge and running on caffeine and adrenaline.

Each of the bags on the table contained a combination of herbs and stones meant to cleanse the area encased in small square of burlap and tied closed with a piece of string. Dean had made sure to follow Bobby’s instructions meticulously, double-checking everything while Stiles played dumb and pretended he didn’t already know what most of the ingredients were. Hunters didn’t often resort to this sort of thing without it being absolutely necessary, but for Stiles it was approaching second nature at this point.

“I still don’t understand why the hell we gotta do this in the middle of the day,” Dean muttered, likely to himself but Stiles answered anyway.

“Because the stones here gain their energy from the sun,” he said. Something slithered by, just visible from the corner of his eye, there and gone in a flash. He ignored it. “So they’re most powerful when the sun’s at its zenith, which today is between one and two o’clock.”

Dean looked at him with narrowed eyes then shook his head in tired resignation. “How do _you_ know that?”

Stiles frowned, adopting an expression of innocence as he said, “I read.”

“Whatever,” Dean said shaking his head again after another moment of contemplation.

Stiles looked back to the bags, stretching his hand out to hover over each one as Dean busied himself digging through his duffle. He could feel a steady thrum of energy radiating from the bags, comforting and warm in its resonance but overall rather weak. Stiles wasn’t sure it would be enough to dispel the spirit even with the added benefit of the sun’s power.

It wasn’t until he and Dean had assembled the pouches that he even noticed the heavy feeling in his stomach went beyond the anxiety about returning and the shadows flitting around him. Now that he had something to measure it against he realized the dread and heaviness that settled over him was almost as suffocating as a wool blanket in the middle of summer. Stifling in its strength and permeated through the area it didn’t even feel foreign.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Lydia had felt the first time they were all here. Stiles certainly hadn’t picked up on it then, too wrapped up in worry over Scott, Derek, and the not so slowly mounting death count in Beacon Hills to give much thought to something that set off the fine hairs on the back of his neck. And then he was just to damn preoccupied with not letting anyone else die to figure out if the twisted ache writhing inside him had been a logical response to his friends trying to commit suicide or from growing awareness of the dark energy pervading the entire motel.

And it was dark. Letting himself consciously acknowledge that was like sinking under murky waters. All consuming, washing over him like a tidal wave if he wasn’t careful enough.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinked. He hadn’t even realized he closed his eyes until Dean had called his name, breaking him free from the strange lull that stole over him. A lilting lullaby in the calming energy of the talismans on the table against the siren call of the motel. He snatched his hand back from where it had been hovering over the bags turning to Dean who was staring at him with something akin to trepidation.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you were ready?” Dean said, eyebrows creased together.

“Oh,” Stiles said wiping his clammy palm against his thigh as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m good. Let’s get this party started.”

* * *

It seemed odd to be creeping around in broad daylight. Even before he started hunting with the Winchesters Stiles had long been accustomed to sneaking around under the cover of darkness. Bright sunshine was simply not conducive to borderline illegal activities or anything of the supernatural persuasion.

So making their way around the motel to dig holes in the ground and punch holes in walls while sweating slightly from the sun's hot rays was odd enough to make Stiles feel entirely off kilter. He concentrated on projecting an aura of innocence and reminded himself repeatedly that no one who saw him gave a fuck what he was doing.

The cleansing they were attempting required eight talisman bags to be placed in the ground at each of the cardinal directions and within the walls of the house, or in this case motel, at each of the intermediate directions. Dean was handling the four bags at the cardinal directions while Stiles was left to hammer holes in the walls in broad freaking daylight.

Stiles gave yet another fellow patron of the motel a friendly nod trying not to look like he was three seconds from vandalizing the wall he was loitering next to. The woman gave him a slightly disgusted look as she hurried away, and Stiles scowled repressing he urge to shout, "I'm tryin' to save your life!" after her like a total moron.

He waited until she rounded the corner then turned to the wall, dropping the hammer he'd hidden up his baggy sleeve to his hand once more and returning to picking a brick free of the wall. This was his last bag and he'd been lucky with the first three, each of the farthest points for northeast, northwest, and southwest falling on a portion of wall that was wood. The farthest southeast point, however, was comprised of old brick. Thankfully the mortar was old and prone to crumbling when struck with a solid object.

He hit the brick he'd working at for the past few minutes again letting out a quiet exclamation of success when it finally rattled loose. It took a few more seconds of wiggling and prying before he managed to pull it free of the wall. Casting one more surveying glance around to see if he was being watched by anyone who actually existed he slid the last talisman into the hole left from the missing brick.

As soon as it was settled Stiles could tell Dean had finished before him. There was a faint surge of energy that rushed outward, washing over Stiles and the motel. Stiles held his breath for a moment then released it slowly glancing first to the left then the right.

The sense of being followed and the shadows that had been clinging to the edges of his vision were gone. He lowered the defensive walls he’d erected after they'd first arrived, casting out a tentative net of his own energy. It encountered only the peaceful resonance of the talismans, and something loosened in his chest.

He slid the brick back into the wall, the talisman thin enough that the brick appeared only slightly out of place, then headed back to their room keeping a keen eye out for any shadows trailing after him. Everything remained quiet the whole way back to his room, and as his feet thudded on the steps up to the second level he let himself hope that the cleansing had really worked.

Dean was waiting by the door as he crested the stairs and turned towards their room. He pushed off from the wall when he caught sight of Stiles, brows creasing as he immediately asked, "You still seeing anything?"

Stiles shook his head stifling down a small smile. "And you?" he returned. "Hearing anything?"

"Nothing I shouldn't be," the hunter said glancing around as if he could perceive whether or not the spirit was gone simply by looking. "Think it worked?"

"Seems to have."

Dean exhaled a slow breath and nodded. "All right,” he said rubbing his hands together. “Good. We'll stay the night, keep an eye on things, and head out in the morning if all stays quiet."

Stiles didn't think he'd ever heard a better plan.

* * *

The bright light of his phone burned his tired eyes, the taunting words of Scott's still unread email all but swimming together until Scott's name and the subject line became one long and mangled word. Stiles groaned kneading at his eyes with one hand while the other reached out to wrap around his water glass. He grimaced at the warm liquid that sloshed into his mouth and resisted the urge to spit it back into the cup. "Ugh," he said causing the hunter to look up from where he was reclining on the bed. Stiles stood and snagged the ice bucket from where it rested the dresser. "I'm gonna grab some ice. I'll be right back."

Dean frowned lightly but nodded and returned his focus to the magazine he was reading. Though there wasn’t much reason to worry anymore Dean still seemed a little on edge about him going off on his own anywhere. Stiles stepped outside letting the door ajar behind him and shivering slightly in the unusually cool air as he tugged his sweatshirt tighter around himself and headed towards the ice chest. He was halfway there, just crossing by the stairs when a figure down below caught his attention.

From this distance it was hard to see much, but Stiles could tell it was a girl. She had long red hair, was wearing a simple floral patterned sundress, and, for some inexplicable reason, was standing barefoot in the middle of the parking lot. Stiles frowned casting a quick look back to his motel room where Dean was waiting before setting the forgotten ice bucket on the banister and descending the stairs, footsteps thumping gently against the well-worn wood.

"Hey," he called as he reached the base. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need help?"

The girl didn't turn or give any indication of having heard him, and Stiles slowed his approach, steps faltering until he was nearly standing still. Closer now he could something red and thick dripping from the girl's fingers from where her hands hung limply at her sides. The niggling sense of wrongness that had hung over him ever since they'd arrived at the motel and remained even after the cleansing intensified, swelling until he couldn't draw in a breath and it felt like the very air was constricting around his throat.

He took another stumbling step closer, aware distantly that he should be running the other direction instead. She was near enough now to touch, and Stiles stretched out a trembling hand, the tips of his fingers just barely ghosting along her shoulder.

She turned slowly; first her head though it remained bowed, face shielded by a heavy curtain of hair, then the rest of her body. The front of her dress was streaked with blood obscuring the large flora on the fabric with wide swaths of crimson, and Stiles stared in horror as she lifted her head revealing sightless eyes that were gouged out yet still seemed to bore into his soul. Blood fell down her face like tears from the gaping sockets, and while Stiles' exclamation of shock lodged painfully in his throat she opened her mouth and screamed.

Stiles stumbled back as the sound of her cry washed over him. Earsplitting and spine chilling it drowned out the rest of the world and left his ears ringing loudly until it was all he could hear. He clamped his hands over his ears and slammed into something hard as he backed away. Hands grabbed at him and he responded with a panicked attempt to free himself, an overwhelming urge to flee flooding through him.

He was wrenched around, steel bands clamping tightly around his wrist. Abruptly Dean's face came into sharp focus, the rest of the motel parking lot following as the girl's scream faded away and the ringing ceased. Stiles sagged in Dean's hold ignoring the hunter's frantic questions as he twisted around to survey the lot behind him.

The girl was gone, no signs she'd ever been there remaining.

"Stiles," Dean demanded again, and he turned his head back to meet Dean's gaze biting his lip and feeling the other man's fingers tighten where they still grasped his wrists.

"I don't think the cleansing worked."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for your patience and thanks for reading! 
> 
> Because I already know I'm going to be really busy this coming week I'm going to ballpark the next update for **May 4th**
> 
> As always I can be found on [tumblr](http://www.little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)
> 
> Cheers!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally an update! Enjoy!

**Run, Boy, Run**

Stiles stared out the window listening to the low rumble of thunder in the distance and watching the gentle drip of raindrops over the windowpane. Dean was conversing with Bobby in low tones behind him, discussing their next plan of action. The cleansing had been, at best, a temporary fix. Although it had forced Alexander’s spirit back the whole area had been steadily slipping into darkness again, both metaphorical and literal, since Stiles' impromptu encounter with the redhead girl in the parking lot.

A shiver ran down his spine and just thinking about the girl raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He couldn’t shake the sense of dread that clung to him since she had screamed. Her face kept flashing in his mind, the whole thing playing out on slow repeat. Hair hiding her features, falling away as she lifted her head. The blood dripping from her eyes, empty and vacant, sockets caverns of shadows. Her mouth fell open in slow motion, pale skin stretching over sharp bones, and the sound of her cry was earsplitting. Shrill yet deep, reverberating through his very bones and piercing his ears.

He wondered if it was some kind of omen. If a banshee’s scream had the same power when the banshee herself was a mere phantom. Perhaps it was the spirit of the deaths, a banshee born of all the blood spilled on the land. Perhaps it was a warning to him about what awaited in the future. Then again, perhaps it was just a vision born of the demons that resided in his mind.

If he were casting votes he’d probably go with the last one.

“Okay, yeah, thanks again, Bobby,” Dean said the closing words of the conversation drawing Stiles from his thoughts. The hunter sighed, sliding his phone back into his pocket and running a hand through his hair tiredly.

Stiles watched another drop of water travel slowly across the pane of glass following the trails of the many that had come before. “So what do we do now?” he asked though he already knew the answer. Unconsciously he played with the pendant around his neck, smoothing his fingers over the polished back and the raised engravings on the front. Over and over like a worry stone. It didn’t help much.

“I think you know,” Dean said nodding towards Stiles’ hands. “We burn that.”

Stiles stilled his fingers, pressing his thumb over the wolf’s head. “We don’t know that it’ll work,” he said. And, to be honest, he doubted it. With a spirit as powerful as Alexander had demonstrated himself to be the necklace should hold a sense of wrongness if it was keeping his spirit linked to the physical plane, and Stiles should be able to feel it. But there was nothing beyond smooth silver beneath his fingers. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of negative energy.

“So we do a different cleansing of the grounds _and_ we burn that,” Dean said.

Stiles slid a hand around the pendant, enclosing it in his palm. He let his mind expand outwards, tentatively brushing over everything around the motel, drifting through walls and over the grounds, touching upon other occupants. Something soured in his gut, twisting and darkening, whispers echoing all around him. A crying baby, muffled laughter, a quiet lullaby, the last shuddering breaths, an echoing scream sounding endlessly in his ears.

“Stiles,” Dean said sharply.

Stiles dropped the pendant, blinking as he redirected his gaze that had drifted to the rain-streaked window back to the hunter. “Hmm?”

Dean’s eyebrows creased together; he looked worried. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Stiles said forcing a grin and pushing himself off from the window. He gathered his thoughts, consciously pulling away from the energy of the motel. The whispers in his mind receded a bit, falling back to white noise as Stiles focused on Dean. “What’s the plan?”

* * *

Dean glanced at Stiles again from the corner of his eye. The other boy was working quietly on the new talisman bags for their second cleansing attempt. He’d been off since they had arrived at the motel, but it had been getting steadily worse since Dean had found him panicking alone in the dark parking lot. Every so often Stiles’ hands would slow and he’d sort of just drift off. Occasionally his eyes would slide shut, but usually he just stared. At the table, out the window, at something far away that only he could see. After a few moments he’d shake himself out of it, blink and refocus.

It was unsettling Dean. Part of him wanted to throw Stiles in the car and just get him as far from the motel as possible, but he wasn’t sure Stiles would let him. Wouldn’t put it past Stiles to ditch him and come back on his own if Dean tried. Not to mention the potentiality of Alexander being linked to the necklace Stiles steadfastly refused to get rid of; Dean wasn’t sure getting Stiles away from the motel would even be enough at this point.

He was certain Alexander had latched onto Stiles. Although his own experiences at the motel had returned despite the cleansing, they hadn’t gotten any worse unlike Stiles’ which seemed to have escalated. Every once in a while he’d catch a voice on the air or catch sight of a person drifting off into the shadows just out of the corner of his eye, but that was all.

Dean sniffed, glancing again at Stiles and wincing when the blade nicked his finger. That was what he got for not paying attention. Stiles tied off the last bag, finished with his task while Dean considered the metal trashcan before him deciding there was enough kindling at the bottom. He broke the remaining wood from the stake over his knee and tossed it in on top of the pile of shavings before liberally dousing it salt and lighter fluid then topped it all off with several larger chunks of wood and a few pieces of charcoal.

“All set over there?” he asked and Stiles nodded.

“Four more bags all set to go,” he said holding two in each hand as he displayed them for emphasis. “So which do you want? To burn shit or bury bags?”

Dean slid the trashcan to the side with his foot and stood to stretch as he considered the question. His back popped satisfyingly, and Dean bit his lip deliberating on how to voice his thoughts on the matter without angering Stiles.

Stiles watched him ponder for a moment then set the talismans aside with a self-deprecating smile. “Right,” he said, clearly interpreting Dean’s hesitance in answering correctly. He pulled the pendant over his head, rubbing his fingers over it once more before holding it out to Dean wordlessly.

“Stiles,” Dean began reaching out to take the necklace. It fell heavy into his palm, heavy and warm from being pressed against Stiles’ skin. “It’s not—”

“I know,” Stiles said gaze trained on the pendant until Dean closed his fingers over it. He blinked, looking Dean in the eye and shrugging. “It’s probably best you do it anyway.”

Dean tucked the necklace in his pocket irrationally feeling like he needed to protect it despite the fact that he planned on tossing it into a raging fire. He couldn’t imagine handing his amulet over to anyone, let alone someone was going to destroy it regardless of attached vengeful spirits. “I’m sorry the cleansing didn’t work,” he said.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he said. It looked like he was going to say something else, the words on the tip of his tongue and a shadow of something on his face, but then he shook his head snagging the bags from the table top. “Let’s just get this over with.”

* * *

He felt naked without the weight of the pendant around his neck. Ridiculous because it had been months since he’d last seen it before Chris returned it to him, but he just couldn’t help feeling like he’d lost something precious. He’d unconsciously turned to it as a source of comfort and found his fingers twitchy now, itching to fiddle with something.

The motel seemed to weigh heavier on him now as he crossed the lot, pressing down on his shoulders like a physical presence. He hunched his shoulders, twining his fingers around the bags in his pocket and drawing on the soft thrum of energy emanating from them in an effort to calm himself. The rain had tapered off to a faint drizzle, more of a mist really, drifting down from the sky steadily enough that Stiles was thoroughly damp in only a few minutes.

He hit the north point first, crouching to the ground and digging a shallow hole into the ground with the small shovel. Dropping in the first bag he quickly scraped dirt and stones over it and moved on to the east. There was a stirring in the air as he moved, more than just the wind pushing at his face. His heart grew cold, something foreboding slithering down his spine like he was being watched. He buried the east bag quicker than the first, moving to the south at a jog, breath puffing out in a faint mist in the oddly chilled air.

The south point was at the edge of the motel. Stiles knelt beneath the large window of the corner room, digging the small shovel into the hard packed dirt a few times before dropping in the talisman and patting the dirt down atop it.

He pushed himself up from the ground, brushing dirt from the knees of his jeans and heart stopping as he caught sight of his reflection in the window. Behind him a dark haired girl stood, head bowed and shoulder length hair obscuring her face. She wore a loose sundress, a nauseating floral pattern obscured beneath a layer of dirt that streaked both the cloth and her pale skin. Her hands were the filthiest; dirt caked under her nails and staining her fingers a reddish brown.

Stiles’ breath hitched in his chest, fingers clenching around the last bag in his hand as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Not real,” he murmured. “Not real. It’s not real.”

He peeked back at the window. The girl flickered closer, lifting her head, and Allison stared back at him. Stiles choked stumbling back to spin around and face her. Part of him expected nothing to be there when he turned, but she didn’t disappear, as real and solid as the banshee from earlier.

“You’re not real,” he said again, louder this time, kicking up a running mantra as he backed away. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

“How could you?” Allison asked, voice small and words whispered on the air. She stepped closer, bare feet whispering across the ground. “How could you let me die?”

Stiles turned away, walking steadily towards the west. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real,” he chanted working to push her voice from his mind, to ignore it even as she breathed down his neck. He shivered and walked faster. She had been a fairly constant presence in his nightmares, had said far more terrible things to him through the nights, but having her here now was somehow worse. 

“It’s your fault, you know that?” Allison said, tone going harsh, hissed right into his ear, slithering through his mind like poison. “ _You_ were the one it possessed. You were the one _weak_ enough to let it in. You were the one that didn’t have the _will_ to do what you should have done in the first place. What you still don't have the will to do!”

Stiles slammed his eyes shut, blocking out the image of her beside him and stumbling over his feet. His breath caught in his chest, lungs aching as his heart hammered painfully. He was stronger than this, stronger than the words of poison he'd worked so hard to get out of his mind. “You’re not real. You’re not…you’re not…”

“I died because of you!” Allison screamed startling him into losing his place in his mantra, stealing his breath away completely. “And I shouldn’t have! I was young, I was innocent, I had my whole life ahead of me! It should have been you! It was _always_ you!”

Stiles whimpered, fingers digging into the broken asphalt beneath his hands, tearing at the skin with sharp pricks of pain. He felt her move closer, crouching over him like a lioness above her prey. It was suffocating, a crushing sense of shame and guilt strangling around him as tight as a noose that tightened with every word falling from her mouth.

"You can make it better. You can fix it, make amends," she whispered. Stiles dug his hand into this pocket, curling his fingers around the pocket knife settled heavily against his thigh. Allison leaned closer, lips brushing his ear as she hissed, "You know what to do." 

* * *

Dean frowned and hitched the trashcan higher up on his hip as he slipped around the edge of the motel eyeing the office and making sure he was out of sight. Proprietors usually didn’t take kindly to Dean setting stuff on fire so he tried to not draw their attention when he needed to burn shit. Crossing the lot, he walked with a purpose and focused on projecting an air of inconspicuousness. He saw Stiles slink by on the outskirts heading to the west point, somewhat surprised that Stiles had made it through all the other bags so quickly.

He ducked around the corner, sliding into the narrow hallway beneath the second floor balcony. It was blessedly empty and he set the trashcan down with a muffled clang against the concrete. Glancing over his shoulder once more to ensure he was alone, not that he expected anyone to be out and about at this time of night when it was raining, he crouched next to the trashcan and struck a match. He dropped it in the can grinning when the shavings caught instantly, flaring up brightly even in the rain as the flames hungrily devoured their fuel. Dean sat back on his heels watching the flames grow and fishing the necklace out of his pocket. He slid his fingers across the silver waiting for the fire to grow hot enough before he could drop it in.

Something flashed by at the end of the hallway, and Dean twisted immediately on high alert. He set the necklace on the ground, rising slowly to his feet and moving to the end of the corridor.

“Stiles?” he called softly. The fire was still crackling behind him, but otherwise the lot was silent aside from the quiet patter of rain. “Stiles, that you?”

He reached the end peering out into the rain and scanning the parking lot. Just barely visible beneath a blown out light post was the vague outline of a body. His heart jumped to his throat as he darted across the pavement, rain beginning to fall harder and dripping into his eyes as he ran.

“Stiles!” Dean skidded to a stop next to the prone form, knees cracking into the asphalt, and immediately grabbing a shoulder to gently roll him over. He came easily, head lolling to the side, and Dean threw himself back with a shout, hand scraping painfully across the ground.

Sam stared at him with blank eyes, a thin line of blood running from his temple and washing away bit by bit in the rain.

Dean swallowed heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and praying Sam would be gone when he opened them again. The rain slowly soaked into his coat, and Sam was still there. Except he wasn’t, because Sam was in Palo Alto. Dean twisted to his feet, steadfastly ignoring Sam on the ground, and was two steps away before a clammy hand latched on to his wrist.

“Dean,” Sam wheezed. “Dean, where were you? You’re supposed to keep me safe. Where were you?”

Dean wrenched his arm free stumbling back a few steps before catching his balance. His head was swimming, skin oversensitive to the feeling of rain sliding over it, blood roaring in his ears. He gasped, trying to orient himself and confused when he couldn’t figure out where he’d left the trashcan because he needed to burn that damn necklace.

Swiping a hand across his face and shaking the water free he stumbled back towards where he thought the hallway was with the trashcan and the necklace. He rounded a corner and slammed into something hard and cold. He hit the ground hard again, groaning and slightly terrified of what he’d run into. What he didn’t expect to see was a blonde woman in a white nightgown.

“Shit,” he said scrambling back and refusing to look at the woman again.

“Dean.”

The walls of the motel were shifting, everything blanketed in a deluge of rain, water washing over his face and into his eyes quicker than he could wipe it out. He’d lost his bearings, couldn't even tell where he’d left Sam let alone the small trashcan.

“Dean? Honey, come home.”

“No, no, don’t listen,” he mumbled planting his hand on the first solid wall he found and moving along it steadily.

“Dean, look at me.”

He wiped rain out of his eyes again, pulling in carefully even breaths, as he pushed himself faster. “Don’t turn around, don’t turn around.”

“Dean, look at your mother when she’s talking to you!”

Dean jerked, gaze snapping around involuntarily to the imposing figure of his father looming over him. He tripped backwards, throwing his hand out to catch himself. It hit something hot and he quickly rolled to the side with a hiss, blinking as the world seemed to rush back into focus. The sound of the rain receded and he shivered, suddenly aware of the cold concrete beneath him. Warm light danced around the small hallway, and his hand smarted. He grimaced raising it up to inspect the burn along his little finger.

_Heat_ , he remembered Stiles saying. _It knocked them out of whatever the motel did to them._

The necklace glinted dangerously in the firelight. Dean snatched it from the ground wincing as the chain caught on an uneven block and snapped. He quashed the sense of regret and tossed it into the fire, pausing to watch it blacken for only a moment before pushing himself to his feet and running from the hallway.

“Stiles!” He spun around squinting through the rain. He didn’t think Stiles had placed the last bag yet. Bobby had assured him that he would be able to tell when the cleansing had been completed, but he supposed he may have missed it. “Stiles!”

An answering call floated back through the rain and he instinctively moved towards it before it registered as female. He faltered, peering through the rain and shaking his head when she called again.

“Stiles!” He moved towards the west keeping his eyes peeled for Stiles or anyone more sinister. After a few minutes he caught sight of a kneeling figure off to one side of the parking lot. He recognized the coat as Stiles’ immediately and moved towards him calling the other boy’s name again. He couldn’t tell what Stiles was doing knelt on the ground. A flash of lightening arced across the sky, glinting off something sharp in Stiles’ hand and followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Dean broke into a run, heart lodging somewhere around his throat. “Stiles, don’t!”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Dean tried to shrug it off growling as he was yanked around and freezing as he came face to face with his mother. The world went quiet and she smiled at him, raising a gentle hand to caress his cheek.

“My little angel,” she whispered. “Why are you fighting so hard?”

Dean stared at her, hand raising unintentionally, just barely brushing over her fingers on his face, then there was a flash of light. A surge of energy that washed out over Dean and the motel. She wrenched her hand away, head tipping back as she screamed, the sound echoing against the walls of the motel and accompanied by another rumble of thunder. She crumpled in on herself, disappearing into the ground, winking out of existence as quickly as she had come into it.

Gasping and wiping water from his eyes, Dean blinked at the suddenly empty lot before him filled with nothing but a gentle falling rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all! I should hopefully have the final chapter up by **May 16th**!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Dean on a hunt to a familiar motel in California—the Glen Capri.

**Run, Boy, Run**

Stiles blinked water from his eyes shivering as the rain picked up pace falling just that little bit harder. He was soaked to the bone, clothes heavy and saturated, hair plastered down flat to his head, itching where it fell across his forehead. His hand stung something awful, and he reflexively clenched it, sucking in a sharp breath as the skin pulled painfully. Bracing a hand on the ground he tried to summon the energy to push himself to his feet. Tremors or shivers ran through him, and for a moment he seriously doubted whether or not he could stand.

He thought he heard someone calling his name, Dean probably, in which case he should answer. But his throat felt scraped raw, mind still jumbled enough that he couldn’t quite figure out what syllables to push past his tongue.

“Stiles!”

Heavy footsteps pounding on the pavement, splashing through the puddles. Everything would be okay now. Alexander was gone. Allison was gone. Dean was not gone, and neither was Stiles. He clenched his hand again, welcoming the burn and sluggish flow of blood that proved he was still living as well as any harsh drag of air through his lungs with each breath.

“Stiles?” Dean called again and then he was in front of Stiles, hands rough on Stiles’ shoulders, gripping his arms, his face, looking confusedly at the faintly visible circle around him that was just beginning to wash away in the rain. “What the hell did you do?”

Stiles dragged his gaze up to meet Dean’s. The hunter was as drenched as he was, shivering slightly as well and looking generally spooked. Stiles offered Dean a fleeting smile, flexing his hand to feel that sting again as he wrapped his tongue around the necessary words. “It’s, ah, it’s a banishing ritual. Saw it in one of Bobby’s books,” he explained although it wasn’t true; it hadn’t been in Bobby’s books. He pulled in several more breaths, feeling each expansion of his lungs in excruciating detail before saying faintly, “I think it worked.”

Dean swallowed glancing over his shoulder. Stiles wondered what he was looking at, wondered if he’d be able to see it, if Dean could still see it. Hoped he couldn’t. “I’m inclined to agree with you, but how the fuck did you know this was going to work?”

Stiles shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders beneath saturated fabric that felt too heavy. “Didn’t,” he said and the uncertainty he hadn’t let himself feel earlier suddenly plowed into him, turning his stomach until he felt faintly ill. The words fell out of his mouth slowly, like a thick molasses. Heavy yet soft, and just this side of distant as if he wasn't the one really saying them. “Doesn’t matter. This stuff is all based in belief really, so I just believed really, really hard and…voilà. All gone.”

“All gone,” Dean repeated and Stiles forced himself to nod.

He wished that was true. Wished the banishing wiped Allison’s words from his memory as well as it had wiped Alexander’s spirit from the motel. Wished it wiped every rotten thing inside him away, banished every dark spot from his soul. Thought he might not have much of a soul left if it did that.

“Hey,” Dean said. “You okay?”

Stiles wanted to say he felt sick. Felt shaky and wrong and dirty far beneath the soil clinging to his skin. Wanted to explain how the air was scraping his lungs with razor blades, and how the throbbing ache in his hand was the only thing letting him know that all of this was real and good. That it wasn’t a nightmare and he was still alive, still fighting. Wanted to cling to Dean until he was warm and the tremors stopped shaking him and the world stopped pitching about like a ship on the open ocean.

He wanted to say all of that, explain everything, but the only word that made it past his lips was, “Fine.”

Dean didn’t buy it, and Stiles supposed he should be grateful for that. “All right, come on, let’s get you up.”

He gripped Stiles by the elbows and hauled him to his feet in one fluid motion. Immediately Stiles’ vision darkened, objecting to the sudden change in position with lightheadedness and a sudden pounding ache radiating from the back of his skull. Stiles clutched at Dean’s arm to keep standing, relieved when Dean steadied him and kept him from falling over.

“Easy does it,” the hunter murmured as they began the trek back to their room. Stiles couldn’t help but cast out an inquisitive net as they made their way up the stairs, pleased when he sensed nothing in the air. A little less pleased when even that simple action seemed to drain him more.

“Wait here,” Dean instructed depositing Stiles on a chair in their room and disappearing back out the door.

Stiles slid forward ever so slowly until his head was pillowed on his arm against the table, micro tremors still wracking through him at regular intervals. He swallowed thickly at another wave of nausea and turned to press his head against the tabletop.

Dean came back a few minutes later, kicking the door shut as Stiles pried his eyes open just enough to watch the hunter set the trashcan now full of soggy ashes by the bed before moving towards the table. He had a first aid kit from the car tucked under his arm. Stiles levered himself up with his good hand welcoming the solid feeling of the table beneath his palm still warm from his body heat. Dean said nothing as he set the kit on the table and pulled a chair up next to Stiles.

Stiles could see the question nagging him as he gently pried Stiles’ fist open and began cleaning the cut. The alcohol wipe stung and Dean made a small noise of displeasure as he poked and prodded. Given that Stiles had dragged his hand across the pavement there was a great deal of dirt and debris in the wound.

After a moment Dean tossed the wipe aside and slid the chair away from the table. He rose to his feet quietly filling the ice bucket with warm water from the faucet in the bathroom before returning to the Stiles’ side. Het set the bucket between his legs on the chair, gently submerging Stiles’ hand and massaging grime from the cut. The water quickly turned a brownish red, clouded with dirt and blood. Distantly Stiles hoped the bucket would be washed before anyone else tried to use it for ice.

Dean dumped and replaced the water several times before he was apparently satisfied with the cleanliness of Stiles’ cut, toweling the wound dry and wiping at it again with disinfectant. It was still bleeding quite a bit, but the surrounding skin was no longer smeared with mud. Stiles had cut relatively deep, a clean slice from beneath his index finger diagonally to the base of his palm torn ragged from where he’d dragged it across the asphalt.

He swallowed as Dean retrieved a needle and thread, quickly averting his gaze to the wall. Dean said nothing, and Stiles waited for the pierce of the needle through skin. He was surprised when Dean instead pressed something into his other hand before fetching him a glass of water. Stiles stared at the two blue pills uncomprehendingly for a moment, washing them down with water when Dean nudged him. It was only after he realized he should have asked what they were, decided that in the grand scheme of things it didn’t really matter.

Dean returned to his seat, and they sat in silence for what felt like forever before he quietly went to work on Stiles’ palm with practiced efficiency. At first Stiles wondered what Dean had been waiting for, but the increasing sense of weightlessness made it pretty clear that whatever Dean gave him was some sort of painkiller. Stiles still flinched at the first sting of the needle through his skin though it was duller than he expected. He kept his eyes averted, having no wish to pass out on Dean at the table.

He let his eyes fall shut, the dull ache in his hand fading away as he let his mind drift. His memory was all too happy to summon up Allison’s face, her snarled words echoing in his ears as if she still stood right next to him. It would take some time to get everything organized back into their respective boxes in his brain, something he hadn’t been faring at so well since seeing Missouri. If he was being honest it hadn’t been working so well since the rawhead hunt. And if he wanted to utterly truthful he wasn’t sure it had been working before that or if he’d simply managed to fool himself into believing.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinked, turning his head from the wall he’d been blanky staring at to face Dean. He was surprised to see his hand wrapped neatly in crisp white gauze atop the table. Dean gave his wrist a gentle squeeze, thumb brushing faintly over his pulse then pulling away as he began to clean up. Stiles drew his hand back to his lap, eyeing it critically and half wishing he’d looked at the stitched cut before Dean wrapped it. He slid his thumb across his palm wincing when the cut protested the slight pressure.

“What did you see?”

The question was quiet. Unexpected too. It took Stiles a minute to process what it meant, and Dean didn’t turn to look at him from his position at the bathroom sink the whole time. Stiles thought about lying for a moment. Part of him wanted to keep Allison’s words to himself, tuck them away in the dark recesses of his mind never to be spoken aloud. But Dean still wasn’t looking at him, just scrubbing intently at the blood on his hands—Stiles’ blood—and it shook the words loose.

“Allison,” he said and supposed it wasn’t a surprise. Dean hardly reacted, hands slowing just a bit as he scrubbed. “She told me…she told me it was my fault. That I was weak. That I should have…should have…”

The words stuck in his throat, and Stiles choked on them having to settle a hand on the table to ground himself. The water shut off in the bathroom, the motel room falling into silence.

“I thought you hurt yourself,” Dean said. Stiles smiled ruefully as he flexed his wrapped hand sparking a flare of pain. “No, I mean really hurt yourself.”

“Trust me,” Stiles said before he could really overthink the words, “Allison was all for it.”

Dean looked pained at the words but didn’t address them further, crossing back to the table instead. He picked up Stiles’ wrapped hand turning it over like he needed to inspected it again to make sure Stiles was okay.

Stiles stared at their hands frowning at a small burn running the length of Dean’s little finger. He caught Dean’s hand as the hunter went to move away, turning it over to look closer at the reddened skin.

“And you?” he asked glancing between the burn and Dean’s face, tightening his grip when Dean drew back. “What did you see?”

“I saw my mom,” Dean said after a moment relaxing in Stiles’ hold and not trying to pull away again. “She wanted me to come home.”

Stiles didn’t like the odd undertone to the words, the barely detectable strain that simultaneously telegraphed how much the sight had shaken Dean and the fact that he hadn’t shared everything he saw. Given the hunter’s history Stiles was sure there were many things that could have disturbed him. He readjusted his grip to settle more firmly around Dean’s wrist mindful to avoid the burn and pressing his fingers deep enough to feel the steady pulse of Dean’s heartbeat. It picked up as he stared at Dean, and Stiles swallowed wondering if the strange thrill that arced through him was how any of the werewolves felt when they could detect other’s reactions.

Dean blinked, Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably as he swallowed, but he didn’t break Stiles grip. Just stood still and waited. What for Stiles had no idea; even he didn’t know what he was doing. Practically holding hands with a hunter in a motel room where all his friends almost died was almost as weird as his life got, but the steady beat beneath his fingers was comforting. Without even realizing he zeroed in on the sensation, sinking into the welcoming thrum of Dean’s pulse in tandem with his innate energy. Stiles savored it, letting it wash over him and basking in its strength.

He twisted his hand again drawing Dean nearer as he stood up. His other hand went to the collar of Dean’s jacket, nails digging into the soft leather and gauze catching on the edge. Dean was still, like he didn’t see where Stiles was going with this or maybe he didn’t care. Regardless Stiles took his lack of response as permission crushing his mouth against Dean’s and sighing as everything seemed to just _settle_. After a moment Dean responded burying his free hand in Stiles' hair, nails scraping almost painfully along his scalp. He shifted closer holding on to Dean’s coat and Dean’s wrist, thumb pressed against the hunter's pulse like a lifeline and marking every beat. 

* * *

Dean blamed it on the fact that his mind was still preoccupied with the visions Alexander had showed him. Blamed it on the fact that he’d never been particularly successful when it came to ignoring personal pleasures or considering long-term consequences. Blamed it on the fact that he was tired, hungry, and cold.

There was a niggling voice at the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Bobby telling him he was treading into dangerous territory, but he pushed the thought away. Stiles was shaking again, more than just shivers from the cold. This hunt had been hard on him, hard on both of them. Who was Dean to deny a little comfort through distraction?

So he returned the kiss, dragging his fingers through Stiles’ hair and pressing him back against the table. Dean pressed his hand along the side of Stiles neck, thumb falling against Stiles’ racing pulse and fingers twining through strands his wet hair at the nape of his neck. Stiles’ hands were cool against Dean’s neck and wrist, fingers ghosting over his throat with barely any pressure and the scratchy feeling of crisp gauze.

When Stiles' hands moved to his belt Dean froze, breaking the kiss and dropping his hands to Stiles' elbows. Stiles halted too, holding motionless, fingers still clasped at Dean's waistband.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, voice pitched low and lips brushing lightly over Stiles' with every word. He was hyperaware of the press of Stiles' knuckles against his stomach, the faintest traces of warmth beginning to seep through the thin fabric of his wet t-shirt.

Stiles' pursed his lips, a quick firm pressure resulting from the motion, then said, "I thought it would be kind of obvious."

Dean pulled back at that searching Stiles' face, taking in the pinched brow, nervous worrying at his bottom lip, and the haunted almost frantic look in his eyes. And it was obvious, just probably not in the way Stiles meant.

Taking his prolonged silence as an agreement, Stiles moved forward again pressing his lips distractedly against the corner of Dean's mouth as his hands fumbled to work the belt loose and pull it free with several agitated jerks. 

Dean grabbed his wrist when he went for the fly of the jeans, swallowing heavily at the wide-eyed confused response that action received. "Stiles," he said lowly, "you can't fuck me because you're lonely."

The confused look remained for a second longer as Dean's words really sunk in, then it was chased away by a flash of indignation and, beneath that, a hurt expression as Stiles yanked his hand away. He shouldered past Dean, headed towards the door, and Dean mentally smacked himself.

"Wait, Stiles," he called twisting around to catch the other boy's arm. Stiles immediately pulled away, testing the strength of his grip before giving another sharp pull; Dean just let himself be drawn forward, keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Stiles' wrist. "I didn't mean it like that," he rushed to explain. "I just meant you don't have to—"

Stiles yanked, almost succeeding in pulling free, and Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh for the love of God," he muttered. "Just c'mere."

He gave Stiles' arm a hard tug, ignoring the squawk of surprise as the action caused Stiles to stumble into his chest. Caught off balance he didn't have a chance to shove Dean away before the hunter brought his arms up to wrap around Stiles' shoulders.

Stiles froze for a moment, seemingly unsure how to respond to the simple hug, then reciprocated, bringing his arms to clasp around Dean's back and pressing his face into the leather.

Dean shifted, adjusting his stance to something more comfortable, cheek resting against Stiles’ wet hair. "You're okay," he whispered knowing he hit the core of the problem when Stiles shivered and pressed a little closer. Dean tightened his own grip, pulling in a calming breath and catching the faint scent of coconut shampoo and cheap motel soap beneath the heady smell of damp leather and fresh earth.

"You're okay," he repeated. "We both are."

* * *

Dean woke to the sound of someone vomiting. Reflexively he wrinkled his nose in disgust before he realized that, since he was still in bed and there was no one else in the motel room other than Stiles, it was _Stiles_ throwing up in the bathroom.

Following some forced nutrition and something that would probably approach cuddling by some definitions, Stiles had fallen asleep rather quickly, dropping into a deep slumber faster than Dean had ever seen. Dean had stayed awake for a while after, too keyed up to sleep even if he was exhausted. Instead he’d busied himself cleaning up the room and packing what he could, making sure they would be able to leave as soon as they wanted to tomorrow. At first he’d worried about waking Stiles, who was arguably a lighter sleeper than Dean at times, as he packed their duffle bags and cleaned out the motel’s trashcan, but Stiles slept through everything like a log. He’d still been asleep when Dean turned in, sprawled on his stomach on top of the blankets and gauze wrapped hand resting on the duvet by his mouth.

The bed was empty now, blankets askew and half dragged to the floor. Dean frowned surprised Stiles’ quick exit from the bed hadn’t woken him. They both must have been more exhausted than he’d originally thought.

He swung his feet off the bed swiftly crossing to the small bathroom. The door was still slightly ajar as if Stiles hadn’t time to shut it. He hadn’t turned the light on either though whether that was because he’d been rushing for the toilet or out of preference for no light Dean wasn’t sure.

“Stiles?” he asked edging into the room. He didn’t really expect a reply, just used it as a gentle way to alert Stiles to his presence. The only answer was another painful dry heave; from the sound of it Stiles had already puked up most of anything he’d managed to get down at earlier.

Dean backed out of the room, clicking on the lamp between the beds and fetching a glass before returning to the bathroom. He filled it at the sink before kneeling beside Stiles and laying a hand on his shoulder. Stiles seemed to be finished now, at least for the moment if not entirely, and was slumped against the toilet shivering intermittently. The thin t-shirt he’d gone bed in was soaked through with a cold sweat, and Dean could feel the muscles in his back pulling taunt then releasing.

“Nightmare?” Dean guessed though it wasn’t much of a mystery. There were few other things that led to one upchucking at this time of night that didn’t involved pregnancy or food poisoning. He could still see the glimmer of denial in Stiles’ expression as he turned to look at Dean though, the reflex to lie. He stifled the flare of satisfaction when Stiles ultimately decided not to.

“Yeah,” the younger boy rasped, wiping at his mouth.

Dean licked his lips glancing out towards the trashcan sitting innocuously next to his bed, cleaned out to the best of his abilities but still sporting a blackened base. “Like a normal nightmare?” he asked. “Or a spirit induced?”

Stiles smiled wanly. “Don’t worry,” he said finally pushing himself up off the toilet though he didn’t go far. “This was a hundred percent authentic Stilesesque nightmare. Nothin’ supernatural about it.”

“This has happened before?” Dean concluded offering Stiles the glass of water. Stiles took it gratefully, swishing a mouthful around before spitting it into the toilet.

“Used to,” he said then rinsed his mouth once more. “Hasn’t for a couple of months.”

“Well, this place is bound to have stirred up a lot of unpleasant memories,” Dean said settling down fully across from Stiles who didn’t seem all that keen on moving far from the toilet. Stiles just arched an eyebrow as if to convey how much of an understatement he thought that was. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stiles’ eyebrow climbed higher. “Are you gonna leave me alone if I say no?”

Dean grinned. “I suppose I could be persuaded to just this once.”

Stiles snorted, but his expression went distant as he rolled the partially empty glass between his fingers. “I don’t remember,” he said quietly dropping his gaze to the floor. “Sometimes I remember them, the nightmares, when I wake up. But the really bad ones,” he paused, a slow and sardonic smile stretching across his lips, “at least I assume they’re the bad ones, those I don’t remember. I don’t remember the dream, just the feeling when I wake up. Like my heart is pounding out of my chest and I can’t draw in a breath no matter how hard I try. And it feels like my skin is on fire, and, and like there’s a blade in my gut tearing me apart.”

“I used to have really bad nightmares,” Dean said in the following silence. The past tense wasn’t entirely accurate; he still had nightmares on occasion but it was a given with his profession and not something he openly admitted. “Mostly after my mom died. I don’t remember most of them anymore, you know? Dreams, even the bad ones, they tend to fade after awhile. But there was this one dream that I still remember.”

He paused, even passing mention of the nightmare from when he was young brought up the memories, still crystal clear after all the years, probably helped along by the fact that it wasn’t entirely left in the past. Stiles didn’t push, would have accepted that as the end of Dean’s contribution, but Dean described the dream anyway with more detail than he’d ever given his father.

“I’m, uh, in a house. I think it’s mine, but I’m not sure. It seemed familiar but also different and I can’t quite place it. The house is on fire, and I can feel the heat of it on my skin, smell it in the air. And I’m just standing there in the hallway. Then my dad comes out of a room and hands me Sammy, and he tells me to run as far as I can as fast as I can because someone is after him. After Sam. So I do. I run like hell and I tell myself to not look back, but every time I turn around. And every time I see a man in the doorway. He’s on fire like the house and he sees me. With Sam. And every time he chases me.”

“Did he ever catch you?”

Dean shook his head slowly. “I always wake up before he can,” he said realizing only after that he’d used present tense. He frowned, but Stiles didn’t seem to catch it. Stiles set the glass of water aside, long fingers instead going the cuff of his jogging pants to pick intently at a small hole. With the constant motion it was almost impossible to tell his hands were shaking.

“There’s this one dream,” he said tone going soft and low, “where I’m in a forest. It’s foggy and I can’t see much and everything is silent. I’m completely alone, and then I hear this loud crack from behind me.” He stopped, drawing his legs up until he was curled into a defensive ball, knees tucked under his chin and silence stretching out until Dean thought he wasn’t going to continue.

“I can’t see what it is,” he said eventually, and Dean wasn’t sure how honest that statement was, figured that perhaps Stiles was reluctant to share just what chased him in the woods. “But it’s huge. And I don’t know why, but I’m always terrified.”

Dean licked his lips, echoing Stiles’ question back to him. “Does it catch you?”

Stiles hesitated, one hand drifting up to his throat before saying, “Every time.”

Dean eyed the hand at his throat with no small amount of trepidation easily able to imagine all the damage that could be done, and thinking back to Stiles’ anxiety over the mysterious marks only he’d been able to see. Stiles massaged his neck quietly for a moment, eyes going distant as he stared at a spot past Dean’s shoulder. The atmosphere was heavy, weighed down by the silence and shadows and confessions. Dean picked at the seam of his boxers searching for the right thing to say next as the air pressed in around both of them.

“We have got to stop having these conversations on motel bathroom floors,” he said finally not sure if joking about it was the way to go, but from the surprised bark of laughter Stiles let out he figured it worked well enough. They lapsed into silence again for a few minutes before Dean broke it once more. “Hey, I’ve got something for you.”

Stiles furrowed his brows in confusion, watching quietly as Dean pushed himself up from the floor moving to his coat hung across the back of a chair in the main room. He delved into the deep pocket, fingers brushing cool metal as he drew the small pendant out. Stiles hadn’t moved from his position on the floor in the bathroom, and just looked even more puzzled as Dean returned and held the necklace out letting the pendant drop from his fingers and sway gently on the chain.

Stiles stared at the necklace in shock hesitating a moment before reaching out to take it and running a reverent finger over the shiny silver. He looked back up at Dean, wide eyes clearly seeking an explanation.

"It didn't melt," Dean said shifting his weight uncomfortably. He’d been surprised himself when he’d pulled it out of the ashes in the trashcan, blackened and crusted in grime but ultimately still intact. "Somehow, maybe the fire wasn’t hot enough, I don’t know. I figure since I saw the spirit go whatever it’s gone, but the necklace isn’t. I, uh, cleaned it up for you. Fixed the clasp too. I just, I figured that you'd want it back."

Stiles bit his lip, enclosing the necklace in his hand as he looked up at Dean. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

And Dean thought the heady rush of warmth those words elicited might get him in trouble someday, but for now he was happy to sit on the floor of a shitty bathroom and talk about lost yesterdays.

* * *

The motel looked different now. Still old, still rundown, still overtly worth less than the price they charged, but the shadow that had hung over it was gone and Stiles hoped the numbers in the office would hang at one hundred ninety nine for years to come.

Stiles sighed, biting his lip as he considered the unopened emails on his phone all bearing Scott’s name. Less than a year ago Stiles had pulled Scott back from a precipice in this parking lot. Today he was letting Scott back in, if only through emails his friend had written days ago.

He started with the oldest and worked his way to the most recent. The first few contained mostly expected and well-worn phrases Stiles had heard over and over from both Scott and the others in the time since he’d left. He paused over one of the newest, trepidation rolling through his gut and thumb hovering over the button to shut off his phone before he impulsively opened the email instead. In spite of the less than kind subject line— _you fucker_ —the opening actually caused a pained jolt of regret to stab through his heart as he read.

_God I miss you and I’m sorry if you’re tired of hearing that from me but I really really do._

There were several returns after that line, a sure sign that Scott hadn’t known quite how to word what he wanted to say next.

_I kissed Kira._

_Yes, I know. I’ve done that before but I haven’t…we haven’t really talked about what we are. Not since Allison._

_I wasn’t even thinking. I just kissed her. I’m such an idiot._

Stiles stifled a smile, blinking back impractical tears as he continued reading about Scott’s plight with Kira described in intricate detail—apparently Kira was playing lacrosse now, go her—covering everything from the thoughtless peck on the lips before class to the later full on kiss with tongue and everything that had followed once he realized what he’d done. Even over email Scott managed to sound just like Scott.

_It’s just…I can’t shake this feeling that I shouldn’t…god it sounds so stupid to admit but I can’t shake this feeling like I shouldn’t have this. That I don’t deserve it, that I don’t deserve…_

_I just wish you were here to talk to. I really do. Because, like, it’s your job as my best friend to counsel me in my time of need dude._

_Hope you’re staying safe, man._

“Hey, you ready to go?” Dean asked and Stiles jerked his head up, quickly wiping a hand over his face and shoving his phone in his pocket.

“Um, no,” he said checking the time. It was a little after one-thirty. Perfect. “I need, I need to make a call.”

“Something wrong with your phone?” Dean asked glancing to Stiles’ pocket as he dumped the last of the bags in the car. “You can use mine.”

“I’ll just use the payphone,” Stiles said ignoring Dean’s look of pensive curiosity as he crossed the parking lot and shut himself in the small booth. He slid a quarter into the slot before dialing and waiting for the call to go through. It was with a physical sort of ache that he listened to a voice he hadn’t heard in months.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Scott McCall. Can’t answer the phone right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!”_

After the beep Stiles cleared his throat, inexplicably nervous now that he actually needed to talk. “Uh, hey. Hey, Scotty,” he said swallowing heavily and leaning against the booth for support. “I, ah, I’m sorry that I’m just leaving a voicemail. I know it’s a dick move to call when I knew you wouldn’t answer, but, um…”

Stiles trailed off rubbing at his forehead as he sighed heavily, letting several long moments of silence tick by before continuing.

“Look, Scott, you deserve to be happy, okay? And Kira? She’s great. Awesome really, you two are perfect for each other, and you both deserve to be happy. Especially you. Don’t get too caught up in the guilt and shit cause it’ll just…it’ll tear you apart, man, believe me. So don't, don’t do that.”

Silence reigned again, so many things Stiles wanted or should say tumbling through his mind, none of it suited for a voicemail. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cool glass and just breathing for a few moments, feeling the warm press of Allison’s necklace against his chest.

“I know that everything sucks, but, uh, even in the worst of times you gotta find that thing that makes everything okay, right?” he said. “And if Kira’s that thing for you then I think…I think Allison would understand.”

He paused twisting the chord so it wound around his fingers before letting it fall free. “So go ahead and kiss Kira. Kiss Kira a lot, kiss her all the time. You know, as long as Kira wants to be kissed. And, ah, don’t worry about me, okay?” he said at length glancing back towards the car where Dean was leaning against the hood not even bothering to disguise the fact that he was watching Stiles’ every move. “I’m in good hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes _Run, Boy, Run_. Part Eight, _This Burden Came To Me_ , to be started **June 1st**!
> 
> My, at the moment seriously lacking, [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


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